


Pieces with Little Importance or Value

by stepstostars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Board Games, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepstostars/pseuds/stepstostars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“It’s Trivial Pursuit,” said Anderson. “You know, a game about trivia, pieces of information of little importance or value.”</em>
</p><p>Sherlock is beyond terrible at board games, taking out his frustration by complaining about the faults of each one they play. John suffers through it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces with Little Importance or Value

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's time to play, "screw your WIPs and write crack" apparently!
> 
> Written for the meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119580447#t119580447

**1.**

“But I’m not actually _sorry_ ,” complained Sherlock, flicking John’s blue piece back at him and looking down on the colourful board with disdain. “Why would a game ever force apologies?”

John stared at the wall, counting down slowly from ten. He could survive. He _would_ survive.

“It’s a bloody board game,” said Greg.

“You say that as if it explains anything. It’s a game based purely on chance and the luck of the draw. The only sense of ‘strategy’ that could even be possible lies in the fact that you have four pieces, but to fully use them, it again, relies on _luck_.”

John flipped his attention to the ceiling, counting down from one hundred now.

Ms. Hudson had taken to anxiously looking at the two men, but she decided to finally speak up. “Sherlock, dear, why don’t you allow the good Inspector to start his turn?”

“No,” said Sherlock flatly, abruptly shooting up to his feet, upending the board as he did so. “I refuse to take part in this petty stupidity any longer.” He flounced off, blue dressing gown flouncing after him like a cape.

“Sore loser,” muttered Greg.

John let his head drop to the table with an audible thump.

 

**2.**

John was surprisingly terrible at Operation, though that may be more because he’d had four glasses of wine and was halfway through his fifth than any fault of skill.

Now, they were nearing the bottom of the bottle, and he’d just dropped the Adam’s Apple in what should be the man’s liver.

Maybe turning it into a drinking game hadn’t been the best of ideas.

Greg, also pleasantly buzzed, clapped him on the back, leaning on him as he laughed. “Christ, you’re shit at this.”

He shoved back half-heartedly, taking a large sip of from his glass as he did. “Yeah, well, not as shit as you are at Stratego.”

Sherlock eyed them both with disdain, before switching his glare to the board and then back again, as if he didn’t know what to be more irritated with. “These puns are terrible,” he finally decided.

John shrugged. “Children’s game,” he said, making a twirling gesture with his hand. “And you’re just mad because we’re still beating you even now.”

Molly, the obvious winner of the night, having extracted the bread basket, wish bone, funny bone, and writer’s cramp already, shifted to the side to awkwardly pat Sherlock on the shoulder.

“I’ve dissected a chick embryo by eye in under ten minutes with just a pair of tweezers,” grumbled Sherlock, scowling down at his hands. “This has no bearing on actual physical dexterity.”

John wasn’t actually very clear on what happened that night after the eighth glass of wine, though they never did find the game again.

 

**3.**

Sally had resorted to hitting her head against the nearby wall to a consistent four count. John was tempted to tap out a melody to accompany, but that seemed a bit too cruel.

“It’s _Doctor Who_.” Anderson sounded vaguely insulted. “How could you not know?”

“He’s a terrible doctor by the sound of it,” said Sherlock snidely.

“It’s a national pastime. _He's a universal icon_ ,” said Anderson, voice slowly rising up in pitch and volume with each word. “How could you not know—”

“Sherlock,” cut in John. “What do you call the dust that follows after a comet?”

Sherlock snorted, waving his hand derisively. “Well that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

The three looked at Sherlock with curiosity.

“It’s—” He blinked, and John could almost see his eyes flash _404 Error_ , _server not found_. “That’s _useless_ , why would I ever need to know that?” he demanded instead.

“You’ve said that for the past fifteen questions we’ve given you,” Sally pointed out, taking a moment away from her apparent quest to destroy as many brain cells as possible.

“Yes, well, none of them were about anything extremely important.”

“It’s Trivial Pursuit,” said Anderson. “You know, a game about _trivia_ , pieces of information of little importance or value.”

“Why would anyone ever base a game off something so—trivial? That’d be like making a game focused on—deconstructing a tower or something else equally idiotic.”

“That’s called Jenga,” said John wearily.

Sally let her face fall into her hands before dropping the whole pile to the table, and for the fifth time in half an hour, John was tempted to join her.

 

**4.**

“First, I can’t choose my own career or house, and now I’m forced into adopting children?” demanded Sherlock. “This is, as the game’s name signifies, my _life._ I should be able to make these decisions.”

Greg looked to John. “How in the world did you convince me that trying this again would be a good idea.”

“Because you’re a good friend,” said John. “And I would’ve dragged him to your flat and left him there if you’d disagreed.”

Sherlock frowned. “John, I’m right here.”

He sighed. “Oh, I know.”

“It’s in the rules to make things more fair,” explained Molly kindly, finally answering Sherlock’s question. “It’s how games are played, by the rules.”

“But life doesn’t have rules and neither is it _fair_!”

At least the board survived intact. It was more than could be said about Cluedo.

 

**5.**

This had been a bad idea.

No, worse, it had been _terrible_ one. It was like he had a death wish.

Why had he ever invited Mycroft over for game night?

Better question, why did they even still have game night?

“Ah, brother dear.” And there was Mycroft, condescending tone in full force. “You’ve fallen victim to one of the classic blunders: never get involved in a land war in Asia.”

If his face wasn’t already hidden in his palms, John would be slapping his forehead with his hand right then and there.

“Do shut _up_ , Mycroft,” snapped Sherlock, who was, indeed, in a brutal land war in Asia with Greg, who was three-quarters of the way to completely, stupidly drunk. He was pleasantly tipsy at this point, smiling and actually seeming to enjoy the vicious banter between the two brothers.

And why wasn’t John drunk?

Because he had a shift at the surgery tomorrow, where for everyone else it’d just be the weekend. Right.

At this point, Mycroft had taken Africa and South America and was angling toward Europe and America (almost completely conquered by John) and was obviously the clear favourite to win.

But that was before Sherlock searched out John’s pistol and shot three holes through the board.

 

**0.**

Eventually, they decided to just play hearts.

(Until they caught Mycroft stacking the cards after he shot the moon three times in a row. Then they started playing spades.)


End file.
